


Bloodhounds on My Trail

by psychocondriacs_with_guns



Category: Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino Fictional Universe
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bathroom Sex, Drinking, Drug Use, F/M, Light Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychocondriacs_with_guns/pseuds/psychocondriacs_with_guns
Summary: You’re a student, in Austin, Texas. You’re living the best life you can, and the opportunity to see the Black Angels is within your ways and means. However, you didn’t imagine meeting Vic Vega, who probes you to go further than you intended.





	Bloodhounds on My Trail

You found yourself, not on accident, in a bar in Austin. The Black Angels were set to perform later that night, you had been expecting them for a month now. They were the headliners but their warm-up was this local band, one you had never heard of before, but had a sour reputation among the natives. They were, as expected, doing some seemingly heroin-fueled mic check before the show. It took an incredible amount of time, and they still disappeared for presumably, another hit in the back. It was 30 minutes before they were actually set to play. You saw there was a posse, clustered in the front of the bar talking to one of the band members. You felt obligated to wait in line with the rest of your friends- like the rest of the bar- to get a moment and say hello to the only member of the band taking a moment that evening to say hello. But then you started standing there and you wanted a drink, another one- this one bigger, with no ice. This evening you discovered a truly unfounded annoyance at the presence of your friends, as much as you loved them. It had been a long day. You wanted to watch the bartender pour you a shot of whiskey and not one of those damned watered down margaritas your friends insisted on getting at the pregame. You told them you were already stretching it this weekend. You didn't want a $15 top shelf margarita from Mi Papi's, possibly the worst Mexican place you have ever tasted in Texas. You tried not to be bitter, and you figured chugging down a drink would help bring back your toke from earlier.

You took a seat on the edge of the red leather bar stool. The bar was wood, but it was sticky. You didn't want to touch it and when you made eye contact with the bartender, you confirmed that he also did not want you to touch it. It was downright grimy in the light. He laid down a napkin for you, "What can I get you, kid?"

The bartender looked like a biker, but this was not a biker bar. It was divey, a bit skeevy even. But this was not a biker bar. There were no bikers, except for this guy, with his white fluffy Fu-Manchu ‘Stache and his red bandana. He looked like a Norse God, with bushy eyebrows and a big beard. You pulled your napkin closer, "Jim Beam, neat, please and thank you, sir."

You reached into your purse, looking for your cigarettes. Your purse was black, and it was hard to see in the dim red light. You heard your drink being set down and you located your wallet to pay for it. But as you raised your eyes, you saw him. He was impossible to miss. You smelled him first, with the thick scent of cologne. Every Texan is heavy on their scents, it has something to do with power. You didn't quite mind his as much, however. It smelled more like aftershave than anything else. 

"I got it," he said. He handed the Norse bartender a bill, leaned on the counter, and gave you a bright smile. "So which direction did the wind blow you in from, sweetheart?"

"What makes you think I'm not from here?"

He looked you up and down, took the opportunity to step forward. He was close to you now, "Well, I've been all around this great state of Texas and, well... From El Paso to Houston, from San Antonio to Amarillo, I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ve never seen a finer piece of ass. Which is bold for me to say. The farther west you go, the more the desert turns those girls skinny and dry down there, and frankly, they are all addicts, and expensive lays... the further west you go. However, to the east, you get thicker girls. You know the ones who have a little meat on their bones, and that is because their daddies taught them how to eat. But also their daddies told them that they would go to hell if they ever saw a cock before marriage. So I was just wondering..." and he gave you another look you up and down, this time with more lascivity and said, "...what you believed your divine purpose was."

You were grinning, "My divine purpose? You want to know?"

"Well, I would. See if it's getting high all day and fucking I can get into that for a while. Not permanently. Ya know I never saw myself settling anytime soon but its-"

"It's a possibility. No, I totally get it," you gave a giggle. "Well, first I would like to wonder for a moment whether you even care to know my name."

He gave you a sheepish smile, ran his hand over his mouth, "I must say, I would, if only for the sake of getting your attention. Vic Vega, at your service." He stuck his hand between you and him.

"________," you took it, noticed the firmness in his grip and the calluses on his hand. You let your fingers linger against his palm, as you both pulled away. You looked down tucked hair away from your face. "Well, as for my divine purpose... I don't think I could even consider what that would be, and if I knew what it was, I would wonder why I was ever told it. I never did well under pressure, and if it was my only purpose, I don't think I would derive any pleasure or satisfaction out of performing it. I wouldn't say that drugs or sex are placed anywhere near the divine, considering they are pleasures of the flesh. But a pleasant high, a grand fuck is nice every once in a while, I was never one for routine, especially one so unrewarding without base pleasures. Usually, I would say my purpose is cashiering at a head shop, making sure my friends and I make rent, keeping in contact with the little family I like, doing community college, doing my part to contribute to the community I currently reside. However, on this night, right now, my only purpose is to see this band, get drunk, have a good night."

"Well, maybe the band will perform tonight, from all this time they're taking up I figure that tonight they have other purposes. Maybe one of them is playing this show, that is indeed still a possibility, but I figure, that they're taking the time to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh tonight. Otherwise, I can assist with getting you all liquored up, and if your nights still shitty I can definitely help with that too."

You were laughing, but not at him, never at him. He was charming, he was forward. God, his mouth was so pretty too. Maybe you were a touch drunk but you hadn't had a sip of your whiskey. It sat, untouched on the counter. You became worried in the back of your mind whether he may have slipped something into it. It was a possibility. Handsome men get away all the time with this kind of behavior- damn their ability to hold eye contact. 

You became aware, very quickly, that he was watching to see whether you would drink. You were perhaps overreacting. But then again perhaps not. Your friends were in the bar, now up near the front of the line, perhaps soon to come over to the bar and get either another corona or something harder. There were a lot of possibilities, and they were rushing through your mind in a matter of seconds. But you looked him up and down, and decided not to waste your time making a decision whether to drink or not drink because you knew it was a whole display of trust for him and not much more. So you drank.

Vic was about to say something but he was cut off by the audience’s impatient cheering. It seemed that the crowd was the one carrying the energy tonight, as the band started to stream out on stage, black t-shirts and greasy black hair. They fumbled with their cases and straps and found a place on the stage to stare into as they stumbled through some moody, instrumental acid rock for the first 15 minutes. The two of you sat a chatted for a while, about more pointless bullshit, just filling the air with pretty little contemplations on life. It all felt like formalities at this point, something to take up the time until the main attraction came on stage. Vic had already made up his mind what he wanted to do with you, and you weren’t inclined to stop him. You were willing to let go of whatever inhibitions you would usually have about charming, persuasive men because Vic made it perfectly clear that he was going to hurt you. There was no doubt about that. You felt it the moment he gripped your hand, the minute he leaned over you with his swagger and his smile, both sharp like a knife. And frankly, you were rather excited. He looked like he could kill you with his hands and derive nothing but pleasure from it.

Both of you were beginning to get handsy. He started by reaching up to pull a couple of strands of your hair through his fingers. You couldn’t help but feel the material of his suit: cotton. Then it was his guiding hand on your lower back as the bar began to get crowded, and he guided you to a darker, smokier corner of the bar. You placed a hand on his chest, reaching under his jacket lapel, under his collar, rubbing his shoulder with the flat of your palm.

And just when it seemed that maybe you would find a way to get those pretty lips on yours, your friends took the opportunity to have concern for your well being. The parade of drunk girls came from the depths of the crowd. Five of them completely slutted up for the event. As were you, it was a good event to be slutty at. They greeted you with tittering, pulling you apart from Vic to greet him themselves while the more responsible of them observed your state of mind. They asked softly if you took anything, as softly as drunk girls can talk. But you were sure Vic couldn’t hear over the music and over the peppering of suspicious questions and drunken compliments. ’You’re so handsome’ they said. ’Where are you from? What do you do?’ And they barely got answers to any of these questions before they were moving along to the bathroom, perhaps expecting you to follow. You stayed with Vic. The band's singer began to lilt through a soft-spoken song-

White picket fence, what an offense  
To my eyes, the bright pride of life…  
What a nice fence-

You both watched for about half a song as the lead guitarist continued with some grungy lyrics and then lost interest. When you turned around, he was reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a tightly rolled joint, a lighter, and a small metal tube. He lit the joint and immediately passed it to you and you were eager to accept it. He looked at you, ”You don’t mind if…?”

”Only if you’re keen on sharing.” Vic’s smirk made it suddenly apparent that he was expecting you to ask. He began to unscrew the cap to his little metal tube and carefully lowered his whole head to take a sniff. You kept down smoke and bit your lip. His head came up, in a quick flip. He pinched his nose and held out the tube for you, nearly full with white powder, ”Try not to hurt yourself, sweetie”

You were going to make it quick, just a little bump for a little fun. But the snideness in his voice rubbed you wrong so you made sure to take a deep breath. The rush was instant to your poor young nostrils, not unfamiliar with snorting but definitely not used to it. You held your nose, it felt like it was bleeding. The lights became brighter, there became a ringing in your ear.

”Now how does that sugar suit you, honey?” You nodded and rubbed away any evidence there may be on your nostril. You smiled, taking another hit of his joint, ”I’d say it satisfied me quite a bit, but maybe just a touch more.”

There were a few giggles, the metal vial stayed within easy reach. You both took a few more sniffs, a few more passes of a marijuana cigarette. The coke kicked in quickly. The room began to spin. Everything was funny, and you both couldn’t stop laughing. You wrapped your arms around his neck and hummed, ”Don’t you wanna take me dancing?”

You were both on the same wavelength now. It was like a switch, the coke did that. It’s so easy to become obsessed with the one thing and he almost forgot the high and music, which was just now starting to get good. You were now the one in control. You ran your hands down the sides of his arms and grabbed his. You dragged him to the crowd, to the dancefloor. You weren’t anything special at dancing but that wasn’t the point. Pressed against him, in a sea of bodies all vibing to the same song. It was euphoric- even if it was the coke. You and Vic, dancing, if you could call it that. Sure both of you danced, he even made your dancing seem tolerable, despite your mediocrity. But to you, this was your powerplay. He could pull you out of that club at any moment, take you behind the building and fuck you there, and you would probably ask if he wanted to do it again next week. He must have known this by now, but he was holding off. To savor the moment maybe? The coke? Perhaps, but he seemed lucid enough. 

Vic grabbed your hips, pulled your whole body against him, chest to chest. His hands moved along your body, caressing your curves. He ran his fingers up along your rib cage, taking the moment to cup your breasts with a firm grip. He was no longer wasting the energy to dance to the music. Instead, he snatched your wrist, he guided back to that little corner, still dark and empty. He pushed your back up against the wall, in that dark little corner. Vic towered over you, blocking what little light you had. In his eyes, it was his turn to touch and so he did. His fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt. He fiddled with the collar of your shirt for a moment, but he quickly stopped playing coy. He leaned down low and began to give you kisses up your jaw, behind your ear. He was on you, his lips were on your neck, nipping and sucking. You pulled on his shirt, wanting to rip open the buttons. He pushed you up higher against the wall, now standing on one leg on the very tips of your toes.

The Black Angels began to set up on stage. You felt a pang of regret at the fact you might miss them, and you did turn your head and say, ”Vic, they’re coming on stage.” 

Vic responded by grabbing your face, fingers digging into your flesh, and pulling it towards him. He looked deep into your eyes like some kind of psychotic little boy, killing toads behind his house. It was the way there was a venom behind his eyes, the way when he smiled he let his tongue roll over his bottom lip. There was no objective in those eyes but to get into your pants, and if you resisted- well, that was part of the fun of it all. The band was introduced, and they rolled directly into Passover, at the top of the track list with Young Men Dead. You had heard the album before, so you decided to let it go. 

Vic grabbed your thigh, gave you a taste of those gorgeous lips that you had been waiting all night to taste. He breathed into you, hot and heavy. You pulled at his skinny black tie, and it fell open around his neck. You popped open the too buttons, running your hands over his chest. You hoped he would hit you later that night, whether be smacking you on the ass or just striking you across the face. You wanted him, all of him. You grabbed his shirt by the front, pulled away from him and gave him a small, sweet smile, “Take me somewhere quiet.”

He obliged you. He dragged you into the restroom. Not the communal restrooms, essentially the bang room. It was a handicap bathroom, the light was dirty, dark, and flickering. It wasn’t particularly filthy but you can't say you were paying much attention. Vic grabbed your waist, lifted you on the edge of the sink. You worked on his shirt, untucking and pushing open his chest. He reached down, between your legs and snapped your panty against your hip before pulling it off your legs. He brought the fabric to his nose and took a deep breath, sighed into it. You grabbed his other hand and brought his fingers to your mouth. Gently you kissed the tips of the fingers, brought them both into your mouth. You let your tongue move between them, coating them evenly with spit. Vic reached into your skirt, pushing your legs wide apart. He slipped inside your walls and started to curl in and out. The sound of your squelching echoed off the walls, and it prompted him to say, “Fuck you’re so tight, sweetheart.”

You bit into your lip, toes tucked into themselves as your feet rested on his hips, “Please fuck me…. please please please-“

You fumbled with his belt, struggling to get it off. Heavy breathing filled your ears as he watched your desperation. He reached down and pulled the leather from your hands. He looped the belt through the strap and brought it around your neck. He reached up and gently pulled your hair through the belt, stroking your head at the same time. The leather then constricted your neck, tight and unforgiving. Your throat let our a tight gasping sound, a choking in the back of your mouth. He let out a satisfied, “Yes… You like that baby?”

You did not have the breath to answer him. You couldn’t feel anything but the heat between your legs and the sharp pain in your legs. He gave you slack, and with your breath, a string of drool fell from your lips. You clenched around his fingers, your juices dripped along his hand, to which he said, “Do I really get you that excited sweetie? Do you love it when I hurt you?”

You heaved a low moan as his fingers began to slide along your walls, the heel of his hand rubbing, in wide circles, your clit. He took a big breath into your hair, smelling your scent as he pulled the belt tight again. The struggle to breathe was bliss, your mouth forming soundless sentences. The way he held your life in his hands, with just the tug of a belt. The pains in your chest and throat, the fingers fucking you blind- it was all so much. And then you did go blind, white flashing in your eyes as you let out a shriek. Your legs hooked around his waist, pulling him close. Your hips rolled forward, knuckles turning white from your vice-like grip on his suit jacket. He hummed into your head, “You’re such a freak, such a little freak… I love it…”

He dropped the end of the belt and the sudden rush of oxygen formed the words you had been mouthing into the air.

“-ease, please, Vic, I love it. I love it. I want- I need. I need-“ The words fell from your tongue with little discretion, sweat dripped from the tip of your nose. The veins in your ears pounded with the rushing of blood. Vic raised his hand to your face and held it.

“Sh-sh-sh, baby… Baby…” he cooed at you, smug. He reached down and released himself from the confines of his pants. “Don’t worry… I’m gonna treat you real nice, little girl…”

He pressed the head of his cock against your wetness. He let out a sigh through his teeth, slipping through your folds. You whined, feeling his heat against your own. He let out a laugh and said, low and sultry, “I could fuck you thorough, but I’m having more fun making you squeal, little girl…”

You belonged to him. At that moment, he could have slit your throat, and you would still profess your adoration of him. He was so handsome, even now, with that smug face grinning down at your prostrated figure. At that moment, you were willing to drop every aspiration you had and dedicate every thought, feeling, and action to him. You pushed your hips into him, trying to take him inside, but he had a firm grip on your hips, and he laughed at your attempts for satisfaction. He let you slowly inch forward, grinding your hips slowly down onto his cock. Once you had completely taken him in, it had felt like minutes had passed. And it wasn’t long after that for a rhythm to develop, pushing up against you. You wrapped arms around his neck, held onto his shoulders as he gave you, what began to be, a generous amount of speed at a reasonable strength.

But as he continued, something angry and more exciting bubbled up. He began to pull on the leather belt around your neck, watching the stress and then relief flash across your face, spark in your eyes. You gasped and sputtered, and at one point you neared blacking out. He pulled the belt so tight it left bruises along your neck, scars from the rubbing of the leather would be there for weeks. Spit rolled out the sides of your mouth, and though you didn’t feel them at the time, tears as well. 

Vic was delighted. Your pained cries and hurt little whimpers were even better than the concert. It was art in his eyes, as most violence is. And he was glad he found a little muse so willing to bend for him. It was about the fucking, but not entirely. He loved the way you clenched around him at his abuse, the way you wanted more of his implications of violence. He felt, though he had felt it many times before, that you could possibly be one of the few who could tolerate him. For a man like himself, this really was all he could ask for. Because yes, he had the blessing of good looks, undeniable charm, and success in his particular career, but his curse was his cruelty, and few had appreciated it, until now.

Vic pulled out of you, and you gave a small protest when he brought you down from your seat on the sink. Your skirt was pushed up to your waist, but your top, your bra, untouched. He leaned down and brought you into a kiss, grabbing a handful of your bare ass. Vic decided to turn you around, and give you a good look at yourself in the foggy mirror. Your make-up was smeared to shit, your face was flushed and sweaty. It was the worst version of yourself imaginable. You didn’t know if he was doing this to shame you but felt the sudden urge to pull down your skirt and run away, back to the concert hall. You wanted to call a cab and leave before he could insult you or confirm the suspicion that you had all along that this man was a user, and he would use you like all the other girls he’s thrown away.

But before you could even pull down the edges of your skirt, he grabbed your shoulder and pushed you forward, over the dripping sink. He lifted your hips up a bit, spread your cheeks, and began to rub his throbbing heat back into your wet core again. He let out a hiss through his teeth, “I’m trying to decide where I want to fuck you.”

“On the one hand,” he began by giving your ass a slap hard enough to make you cry out. “Your ass is absolutely spectacular, and I’m considering tearing into it. I bet you don’t get fucked there often, if ever. My guess is that it will hurt a lot- for you, that is. I gotta say, that’s a pretty big part of it for me.” He gave you two more hard smacks on the ass. You let out a whimper as he rubbed himself between your legs, spreading your wetness along your slit. He leaned over you, breathing into your hair again. He let out a low moan, sliding his cock between your thighs.

“On the other hand, your pussy is perfection, and honestly I’d just prefer to fuck this all night,” he took a big handful of your hair and twisted it in his hand. He pressed your face into the mirror. Then in a quiet groan, he said, “But, I just don’t think I can stop myself from cumming in you, sweetheart.”

You swallowed hard. You moved your hips against his slick heat, wanting him inside you. You let out a hum and said a soft mantra, “Whatever you want… I’ll give you whatever you want, baby…”

Vic grinned, “Whatever I want?”

You nodded, panting, “Mmmhmm… I want you, baby…”

Vic pushed your ass up, spreading you open. He grabbed your hips and slid himself inside. You tightened your core around him, and his let out a dry breath. He slid you along his length, guiding your hips with his dire grip. The tightness, the slip. The unbearable heat in your core, and the feeling of him rubbing against something that may pop and spill inside you. Vic laughed at your heaving and wheezing, against him. The purring in the back of your throat, the sounds of caught breaths, the gasping were all drowned out by the concert blaring in the distance. The only one to bear witness to your submission was Vic, and to him it was akin to some kind of holy vision. His virility and callousness were not typically directed to someone unwarranted, as he had done tonight. You were a decent, moral person, and he knew you didn’t deserve such abuse as he was giving you. But then again, you seemed to find bliss in it, so it almost felt more cruel to him, to treat you gently.

Vic’s lost focus, he closed them and took deep inhalations of your scent. He listened to the smacking in the distance, the sounds of your heaving chests. His hips erratically beat against you, faster, sloppier. You sighed, knees buckling, toes curling into your shoes, “Vic, I’m gonna cum… Keep going…”

He lifted your hips higher, “Don’t give up on me yet, doll face… I’m almost done…”

He pulled your head back, your eyes now to the ceiling. He grunted in his final movements, lips on the back of your neck, “That’s right, good girl… Hold on…”

And then you felt that bubble, that thing inside you he had been rubbing up against, burst. You cried out, feeling yourself spill down your legs. Vic let out a hiss through his teeth, and his thrusts slowed to a stop. His breath was quick and heavy, letting his seed run deep inside you. You pushed yourself off the mirror, “... fuck…” Your feet were fully on the ground again. Vic slid out of you as you lowered your ass. He sighed and spun you around, giving you a kiss on the mouth. 

“So… how was that for you sweetheart?” He said, reaching up and pulling the belt off your neck. You wrapped your arms around his middle, letting him lean up against the bathroom wall behind him. You pulled down your skirt and looked around for your underwear. Vic reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out your still damp underwear, giving them a sniff. You snatched them from his hand and he gave you a smirk. He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, pulled out a flat metal card holder. He gave you one. On it, in black ink and typewriter font, his initials and a number.

“I can’t guarantee that I can be reached by that number all the time. But if at the end of this week you want to see me again… That number should work.”

You tucked it into a pocket and then raised your arms around his neck, giving him an open-mouthed kiss. The concert was near ending outside, and the way he kissed you was with finality- there would be no more time with him tonight. He buttoned up his shirt, smoked a cigarette with you for a few moments, and then disappeared. Slipped through the door and was gone, like some apparition from a dream. 

And you stepped through the crowds, as cars negotiated their way through parking lots, and as people pushed past each other- your head was static, your body was alight all over. Somehow your friends located you, and somehow you were brought home. The only thing that seemed real to you, the only purpose in your mind, at that moment, was that card in your pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently set up as a fic but will probably be a series of one shots. Check out my blog psychocondriacs-with-guns.tumblr.com for more stuff by me!


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